Scars
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: What is Kenshin really thinking while he does the laundry? KenshinxKaoru, a streamofconsciousness vignette.


**Author's Note: **Well, I'm finally posting the first fanfic I was every satisfied with--seriously revised, of course. First person stream-of-consciousness vignette, maybe the first in a series of RuroKen characters? I'm not sure. And I wrote the haiku myself--before the story, actually. It's definitely not the best haiku I've ever written, but good enough for high school creative writing class, where it made its first appearance. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I am not Nobuhiro Watsuki. I am also not his publisher, hiseditor, his girlfriend, or his former roommate. Therefore, I have no right to this.

Scars

The feelings of the washing are familiar by now, even comforting. After so much repetition the rhythm of it has worked its way into my hands, my muscles. I could be half-asleep and still keep doing the laundry without even a thought. The smell of the soap on my hands, the warmth of the sun on my back, the feeling of the wet clothes against my fingers as I rinse them thoroughly and shake them out—all combine to produce an atmosphere in which I am . . . contented, in which I can forget the darkness of my past as if it had never been. It is a warm day in early summer—perfect for doing the laundry. It should dry quickly in the sun, for the normal relentless humidity of the summer months has not yet arrived. The repetitive movements of this simple household task always seem to be able to comfort me. Their simplicity makes peace easy to find, at least for the moment, makes it easy to forget . . . .

I feel a presence on the engawa behind me, and my hands still in their task for a time. It is Kaoru, watching me, I realize after a few moments. Her presence is so distinctive I have never needed to turn around to discern her identity. She is Kaoru, and that is that. De gozaru yo. I can't help smiling a little at the thought, but that smile quickly disappears.

What does she see when she looks at me like that? A simple rurouni doing the laundry as a favor to her? Or the Battousai, a hitokiri, trying to forget the darkness of the Bakumatsu in this mundane chore? Or does she see both—is that even possible? Part of me doubts it. I stand up, picking up some of the clean clothes I'm going to lay out to dry, and risk one tiny glance back over my shoulder. She's just standing there looking at me, one hand resting on one of the posts of the engawa.

I've never met anyone like her before. It sounds sort of . . . silly, I know, but it's the truth. In all my ten years of wandering, she was the first to tell me that she didn't care about my past like that. Everyone else did care, even if they didn't know what that past was, exactly. If they did know, maybe they wanted to kill me, maybe they wanted to reward me, maybe they wanted nothing to do with me, but they all wanted _something_ from me, something because of who I was, who I had been. But she—she wasn't like that. She was willing to look past that. Willing to forgive me whatever I might have done. In some ways she is so different from Tomoe, but it some ways—our eyes almost meet, and I look quickly back to the laundry, but I can still feel her eyes on my back. My hands are trembling a little as I straighten the drying clothes. Part of me wishes that she wouldn't look at me like that. I—don't know how to react. How can she not care about the things I've done?

The only conclusion I can make is that she does not understand. How could she understand and still treat me the way she does? She says that she doesn't care about my past—her eyes say that she will forgive me for anything, no matter what I've done. My hands tighten on the cloth beneath them. I can feel the sword-calluses on them—

And so I smile at her in return and treat her how I suppose I'd treat a beloved sister, no matter how deeply I really feel. I . . . I'm not sure how I really feel . . . . I know those smiles, the formal way I treat her, hurts her feelings. I know she doesn't want there to be such a wall between us, and it makes my heart ache with so much pain to see her hurt, but I can't let the wall down. She doesn't understand. She can't understand.

How can I let her love the Battousai? Look at what happened to the last woman who cared about . . . me. I—I _can't_ let that happen again. I do . . . care for her—but how can I let myself? _I _am a danger. Tomoe wouldn't have died if I hadn't—

Kaoru doesn't care about the danger, I know that. I let myself steal a look at her retreating back when I hear the floorboards creak under the movement. She's leaving to find Yahiko, ready to take her frustration with me out on him. I smile to myself. She is so spirited, so brave.

Does she really know what she asks for when she asks me to stay? How much does she really know about the things I've done?

I tear my gaze away and kneel to continue the washing, trying in vain to focus my mind back on the familiar task. I don't want her to know, or to understand, I tell myself. The things I've done are too . . . terrible, and she is still so innocent. I will not be responsible for contaminating that innocence, that purity, with the darkness of my own tainted soul. I _will _not! She deserves better, I know that. Tomoe deserved better. I can never atone for my sins. I do not deserve a woman such as Kamiya Kaoru.

But there is something in me that cannot tear myself away from her. I cannot seem to face the thought of life without her any longer. I sigh as I reach for some of the clothing I haven't yet washed. I am lost and alone, empty inside, when she is not near me. I treasure this new life here with my friends. My . . . family. I never had a family before now, not since I was seven years old. I can barely remember my real family, and my shishou does not count, because I left him. There is something about Kaoru that makes me feel whole again when I am with her, makes me feel as if I really am the innocent rurouni she has come to know, as if somehow, I really can put my past behind me. Maybe I can . . . ? I lift my head to look longingly after her.

No. I turn back to the laundry. I may seem innocent, but I am not; I know better than anyone else how true that is. Kaoru's innocence is real. She cannot imagine the things that I have done. She is a child of peace, not like me—a child of war. She deserves so much better than a scarred rurouni with a killer's past.

A killer's past . . . an assassin's past. The laundry drifts out of my hands, forgotten, as I recall the scent of white plum blossoms . . . Tomoe . . . I wonder what you would think if you saw me now? Would you be happy for me, for the peace I've found here, the family I've found at the Kamiya Dojo? Back then, I never imagined my future like this. I never even dared to imagine my future, not until I met you. Would you be happy? I wonder . . . . I haven't forgotten you, Tomoe. I will never forget you.

My hand steals up to cover the scar on my cheek. It still hasn't faded.

Kaoru-dono, please forgive me. You deserve better than a scarred killer. Better than this unworthy one.

Sun and the washing—

snow, blood, the scent of white plums—

I cannot forget.

Owari


End file.
